


At the Pleasure of the President

by holograms



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Desk Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Slut Shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms
Summary: “Prove to me that you want this job,” Adams says. “Convince me.”Hamilton scowls. Adams is enjoying this too much, having power.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trick-please (EveJobs)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveJobs/gifts).



> so [trick-please](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EveJobs/pseuds/trick-please) asked for Adams/Hamilton hatesex. it sounded right up my alley.
> 
> My personal Hamilton fancast of Adams is Raúl Esparza. Imagine that as well, if you wish.

“Prove to me that you want this job,” Adams says. “Convince me.”

Hamilton scowls. Adams is enjoying this too much, having power. It’s a foreign concept to the man — he’s always been one step to the left of power, not quite being at the helm. Observer to Jefferson while writing the Declaration. Never saw a battlefield, no rank or scars earned while others fought for freedom. Vice President to Washington, in which Adams himself said is a purposeless position. Hamilton is ashamed to share a the Federalist party title with Adams — worthless, dull, arrogant, anti-charismatic. But now Adams is President, and with it, _power_. Hamilton fears what Adams can do, _will_ do now that he has it. He's already abusing it now. Calling Hamilton in here, showing off. Disciplinary. Obey or else.

And Adams has the audacity to call Hamilton the _sadistic monarchist_.

“Well?” Adams asks, cross. Irritation always lines his voice, sits on his dark brows. Hamilton knows Adams won't last the term unscathed. Probably the country won't, either.

“Sir. Mister President,” Hamilton says, gritting his teeth. Acid on his tongue. “My services are superb. Top-notch.”

Adams harrumphs, and there's a flash of teeth for only a moment when he chuckles, but then his expression settles back into the perpetually pissed-off expression. For one terrifying second Hamilton thinks that Adams wouldn't look so bad if he didn't always look like he’s smelling sour milk — nice eyes, compact, a shock of chestnut brown hair — but then Hamilton comes to his senses and is repulsed with himself.

“It's painful to call me that, isn’t it?” Adams asks. “Acknowledging me as the President?”

“No, Sir.” Hamilton stands ramrod straight. Hands behind his back. Head tilted down to look down at Adams, to emphasize the height difference. “I serve at pleasure of the President. With honor.”

He needs to. Someone has to make sure the nation isn't ran into the ground.

“But will you be as, ah, loyal to me?” Adams asks.

Hamilton shrugs. “It's a chance you'll have to take.” He smiles his most charming smile, the one that won over the previous inhabitant of this office. “I think I'm worth it.”

Adams rolls his eyes, leans against his desk and crosses his arms. “See? That's my problem with you.”

Hamilton quirks his brow. “You don't want to need me?”

“Your _attitude_ ,” Adams snaps. He gestures to Hamilton. “You're insufferable, sanctimonious, prissy—”

“I’m still worth it.” Hamilton stops him before he gets to the slurs.

“Doubtful.”

“Remains to be seen.”

“I've seen enough of you—”

“Perhaps you haven't seen the best of me yet?”

“Again, doubtful.”

“Would you have me on my knees?”

“Alexander Hamilton, begging?” Adams scoffs. “As if.”

“I don't grovel,” Hamilton says, but he goes to his knees anyway, because he may not grovel but he knows how to make an argument.

Adams looks down at him, stupidly.

“People need _me_ , mister President,” Hamilton says, “not the other way around.” He runs his hands down Adams’ sides, down his legs. “Understand?”

“I don't need you,” says Adams but he gasps and shudders in a way that suggests otherwise when Hamilton palms Adams’ dick through his breeches. What Hamilton feels also suggests otherwise: his dick going stiff, filling out. Adams’, that is. Not that Hamilton’s isn't, either. On his knees for a man always gets him rock hard, no matter how atrocious the man is.

Hamilton grips Adams through his breeches, says, “There’s nothing to be ashamed about needing help.” He squeezes Adams’ cock, jacks it slowly in a way that he knows must be torturous friction against the fabric. “No shame in wanting help, either.”

“Did you offer these services to Washington as well?” Adams asks, and Hamilton thinks it a wonder that a man could still sound so displeased when someone has their hand on his cock. “Does the welcoming committee includes a slutty bastard on his knees?”

Hamilton doesn't flinch. “I didn't need to get on my knees for Washington notice me,” he says. “Although, it was mutually beneficial to both to assume the position.”

Adams lets out a strangled, disgusted sound.

“Consider this a test-run of my services,” Hamilton says. He leans forward to lick at the head of Adams’ cock through the material. He smiles when he feels Adams’ cock twitch. This is too easy.

“Then demonstrate your skills,” Adams says. And, well.

Hamilton undoes Adams’ breeches and pulls them to his knees, pushes his shirt out of the way. He bites down on his bottom lip when he sees Adams hard and aching for him — it’s average, just like the man, but the fact that Hamilton can make him worked up like this makes him want to stick his hand down his own pants.

Hamilton says, “Let's see if you're hermaphroditic as the papers report,” and runs his hand from Adams’ ass, over his taint, until he’s holding his balls and says, “Nope. Damn, I'm out money on that bet. I know that you should never believe what you read in gossip columns but—”

He's cut short by Adams grabbing his hair with two fistfuls and tugging, pulling it until Hamilton has to move where he wants him to go — Hamilton walks on his knees so they've switched sides, and now Hamilton is backed up against the desk with nowhere to go, and Adams stands in front of him, caging him in with his dick in his face.

Hamilton is still in control.

“Do you think this a joke?” Adams demands, and unthinking, Hamilton replies, “I think _you're_ a joke.”

“I'm not the one on my knees begging to suck cock,” Adams says. “You have this elaborate excuse to justify your filthy homoertoic desires. I always knew you were a whore. What else could you be, with your homeland full of undesirables?”

And that's when the dam snaps; Hamilton goes off and he talks and talks and talks, he shouldn't have to defend himself to Adams of all people, but damn it he's struck a nerve.

“You motherfucker! Arrogant, fat, useless, idiot, you wouldn't know how to properly govern if it weren’t all laid out for you, I'm going to—”

Hamilton has to admit he's surprised when it happens, and that's why he hates it even more.

Adams grabs Hamilton’s tongue, literally pinches it with his thumb and three of his fingers, and effectively halting Hamilton’s speech. Hamilton tries to pull it back but Adams has a good grip on it.

“I had silence you myself,” Adams says and he's smiling. He tugs on Hamilton’s tongue. It kind of hurts. “Because I know you would never voluntarily _hold_ your tongue.”

Hamilton grunts, says a muffled _fuck you_ , then manages to wrench his tongue away, slick and pulling out of Adams’ fingers. He spits excess saliva at Adams’ feet, says, “Fuck you,” for real — Adams pushes forward on Hamilton’s shoulders, so he's pressed against the desk.

“Go on, prove it to me,” Adams says, and pushes his pelvis forward so his dick rubs against Hamilton’s lips. “Prove to me that you're the best cocksucker in the country. Prove it to me that you're willing to do anything to keep your job. Prove it to me that this is what you've done to get where you are—”

Hamilton opens his mouth and closes his lips around Adams’ cock when the head slips inside. He looks up when Adams stops talking — now he's the one silenced by having something of his held — and Hamilton goes ahead and counts this as a win. Another of many. Adams, zero; Hamilton, five thousand and one.

Hamilton lets Adams shove his cock in his mouth so the shaft slides on his tongue, until the head nudges against the back of his throat. It's barely there. Hamilton has had longer, thicker, better tasting, but it's still a cock in his mouth. He floats for a moment to the buzz in his ears as Adams slowly thrusts in Hamilton’s mouth, and enjoys the ache in his jaw and how drool runs down his chin.

Adams’ breathing turn to into pants as he fucks Hamilton’s mouth, and he threads his fingers through Hamilton’s loose dark hair and pushes so Hamilton’s head clunks against the desk. Hamilton thinks to pull off and say _let me do the work_ but he knows the advantage here is to make Adams feel in control, so Hamilton lets him have it. Lets Adams get more confident, snap his hips harder until Hamilton tears up a little at the strain of it and goddamn, Hamilton is so so hard in his breeches but he won't touch himself yet. He can feel his face flushed red from embarrassment but he makes sure that this is Adams’ best blowjob ever — he doubts that dainty Abigail has a liking to sucking her husband’s dick. Poor guy. He lets Adams thrust his cock in his mouth, all the way so that his nose is buried in Adams’ dark pubic hair and he can feel the head of Adams’ cock at his throat. He pretends to choke, makes Adams think his cock is massive. Hamilton tries taking him further in his mouth, gags, constricts his throat around Adams’ cock. It works beautifully — Adams moans and Hamilton feels precome leak down his throat and his ego boost. But then Hamilton looks up at him and rolls his eyes, then narrows them as if to say, _is that all?_

Hamilton knows that it's an erotic sight to see his lips stretched over cock and his face messy with spit and precome. Hamilton blinks up at Adams, runs his tongue against the underside of his cock. He's not holding his tongue now.

Adams pulls out, too fast, and Hamilton does kind of gag for real this time. He coughs, drool spills on the ground, but Adams doesn't give him time to adjust and grabs him by his hair and pulls him from his knees into a standing position. Adams yanks his hair again and despite his best efforts, Hamilton moans. He goes to cup his cock, and his toes curl in his shoes. Why does everyone go for his hair? Is it so obvious that he loves it? Goddamn it.

“Disgusting,” Adams says.

Hamilton's eyes flit down to Adams’ cock, it's red, upright, slick. He asks, “So are you going to fuck me with that or not?”

The rest is quick — Adams takes a step back as Hamilton undoes his breeches and pushes them past his knees. Hamilton doesn't miss how Adams’ eyes widen slightly when he sees his cock, and Hamilton gives himself a stroke before spitting in his hand and then turning over, bending facedown over Adams’ desk. He reaches back and shoves a finger past his rim and into his hole — he doesn't have time to tease himself. He finger fucks himself open, sure to make it a show for Adams, who is blessedly silent. When he's three fingers full he looks over his shoulder to make sure Adams is still there. He is, and Hamilton barks out a laugh when he sees that Adams has his hand on his cock, thumbing at the head.

Hamilton pulls his fingers out, slaps his own ass, moans at the sting. He grabs his ass with both hands and holds himself open, presenting himself like the whore Adams thinks him as.

There's a certain appeal to fucking someone over a desk (he knows — he's fucked and been fucked over desks). Hamilton knows that Adams won't refuse.

Hamilton feels Adams line up behind him and put his cock at his hole, pushes in slightly. Adams gets the head in and stalls at the tight resistance, but Hamilton says, “is it in? I don't feel anything—” and has to bite down on his hand so he doesn’t whine when Adams thrusts hard, all the way in.

When his vision clears, Hamilton focuses on Adams’ desk. He realizes that Adams has been in the office for less than a week and he’s already reorganized. But some things have stayed the same. In microfocus, Hamilton sees the deep scratch in the surface that he made once by dragging an ink pot across the desk. He thought Washington would be mad at the damage. He wasn't.

Adams fucks him as best he can, with hard and steady pounds that are nice but can't do the job on their own. Hamilton arches his back some so he can get his hand on his cock and he gets in a few strokes before Adams swats his ass and says, “No,” and then wrangles Hamilton’s hand away. For a moment, Hamilton thinks that Adams is going to jerk him off but of course not — he grips him vice tight around the base of his cock, keeps him from coming even if he could.

Hamilton pushes back against the too dry drag of Adams’ cock in him, clenches his hole around Adams which causes Adams to moan and curse. Adams puts his free hand at Hamilton’s neck, holds him down to the desk as he fucks him hard and unrelenting, says, “I hate you.”

“Likewise,” Hamilton says. He focuses on the pool of drool on the desk.

Adams keeps railing him balls deep with every thrust, and makes a bunch of noises that tell Hamilton how good he thinks his ass is even though he's spitting insults that Hamilton drowns out. It lasts for he doesn't know how long. Hamilton feels utterly used, and that's when he’s at his best. At service.

Adams comes, finally — as he spills into Hamilton with a shuddering orgasm, Hamilton says, “You should probably get that checked out.” Adams growls, shoves his softening dick into Hamilton once more and grabs his neck until it hurts.

He pulls out, lets go of Hamilton’s cock. Hamilton slumps against the desk, pushes himself up with his hands. He can't face Adams yet. Come leaks out of his hole, drips down his thigh. He clenches his ass and feels more leak out.

Adams tucks himself back into his breeches and walks back around the desk, makes it so Hamilton has to face him. He gestures to Hamilton’s erection and says, “Go ahead, I suppose you've earned it.”

Hamilton jerks himself off fast, bracing himself with his free hand on the desk. He glares at Adams as he strokes himself, pants open-mouthed and grunts and he feels he's close — he tightens his grips and fucks his fist for the final few strokes and then he comes, aims, shooting off in white streaks that land on the desk.

Marking territory, as it were.

Adams takes a step back, visibly affronted. That just makes Hamilton laugh and continue to pump his cock and coax out more sticky release. He starts to soften, but he squeezes under the head, hisses at sensitivity, but he's rewarded with a few dribbles more of come. He wipes it on the wood, and lets his cock lay on the desk for a moment. Admires his handy work of Adams’ desk decorated with his come.

Good luck to Adams ever being able to sit here without thinking of this. Adams wordlessly flits his eyes down at the come on his desk, up to Hamilton and his smug grin, back down to the come.

“You're fired,” Adams says when he can tear his gaze away from Hamilton’s prick and the mess on his come-stained desk. “I don't need you, you secretion-filled bastard.”

Hamilton neatly tucks himself back into his breeches, straightens his coat. He drags a finger through his own come on the desk, sucks his finger clean. He would lick the desk clean if he really wanted to put on a show, but he doesn't have the time, and he's proved enough. He got what he wanted.

“You can't fire me, because I _quit_ ,” Hamilton says. Fuck it. His job won't be the same, anyway. It's someone else’s problem.

Adams sputters, figuring out he's just been had.

Hamilton stops at the door, turns back and points at the desk with his spit-slick finger. “You should clean that up. It'll settle into the wood.”

He winks, and then walks away.

 

*

 

Two things happen in the following week.

First: Adams gets a new desk.

Hamilton watches the old one get moved into storage. Hamilton puts in a request to have it.

Second: Adams releases a statement that he fired Hamilton.

Liar.

Hamilton smiles, and then picks up his quill. He's not quite done, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> yep.
> 
> \- [Jefferson had a reporter say some mean things about Adams](http://www.merriam-webster.com/words-at-play/are-presidential-campaigns-getting-nastier-not-really/hermaphroditical) of which, that Adams was a hermaphrodite. But Adams got a zinger back — saying that Jefferson was dead. (And this happened in the election of 1800, but it was too good to not include.)  
> \- "...he had a superabundance of secretions which he could not find whores enough to draw off." Chernow, page 522. This is what Adams had to say about Hamilton. I took it and ran with it.
> 
> find me being weird @[acanofpeaches](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com) on tumblr


End file.
